Am I Really Thirty-Nine – er – Forty?

You bet your walkman-wearing britches I am!

The other day I turned the magic number of forty years of age. It was a great night out with friends and included many a cocktail. Good stuff. One young couple of maybe twenty-one staggered up to me and slurred said, “Wow! You look good for forty!” What did they expect? The creepy old crone from Snow White?

It was then that I remembered how the young view the “older than me” category.

I was ten when my dad turned forty. My mom threw him a party and everyone bought him “Over the Hill” regalia. I remember thinking, “Damn, that’s old. What’s with the black balloons? Hmm, maybe I should have bought him a cane. Poor old, old dad.”

Clearly I was wrong.

In reaching these milestone birthdays, it is common to look back on one’s life and take inventory: Am I where I thought I would be? Have I accomplished all that I have set out to do? What have I learned?

I am no different. So for kicks, I thought would share my ten-year-old thoughts on what I thought forty would look, in comparison to what has really happened.

Pop in your Depeche Mode tape, and travel back in time with me:

10-year –old Me

I will be married to John Taylor of Duran Duran.

What Really Happened

I am married, not to John Taylor, thank God. He’s way prettier than me and would probably steal all my face creams.

10-year –old Me

I will have seven boys.

What Really Happened

Ladies and Gentlemen, my uterus has left the building. Seriously, seven? Bah! I have one awesome girl, and let me tell you, she could do circles around seven boys. I guess I was watching a lot of Little House on the Prairie and Eight is Enough at the time.

10-year –old Me

I will live in a penthouse in NYC.

What Really Happened

I live in a home outside of Boston. It’s pretty cool, but very far from a high rise. I remember this housing goal so clearly. I pictured myself staring out the window, looking over the city in my purple rayon pantsuit, with shoulder pads, and long lacquered nails. It’s something I conjured up after watching the movie Mannequin.

10-year –old Me

I will not be like my mother.

What Really Happened

I am exactly like my mother. Right down to the loud talking, repeating myself, and constantly wiping down countertops. When I reached college I was shot with a lightning bolt of realization – my mom is pretty much the coolest person walking the face of the earth and I have her DNA. So be it life, she is bitchin’.

10-year –old Me

I will be on the hit show Fame. I loooooooved this show. I wanted to be in Debbie Allen’s dance class like nobody’s business. You know the opening credits when she is talking all serious and beating that stick on the wood floors? Oh, I get chills just thinking about it. That and she was always up Leroy’s ass about something. A recipe for awesome.

What Really Happened

I still watch reruns. That and I read trash magazines about famous people.

While my ten-year-old self is looking at me now and probably thinking, “What gives sister? Couldn’t you have done at least one of those things? And where are your legwarmers?” I know better.

What parents, family, friends, and others in general don’t tell you, are all the things you learn and experience along the way to get to forty. How can they? There is so much.

How can you tell a child that you will learn to be comfortable in your own skin? How can you tell a child one day you will experience a love that will rip away at you and fill you up at the same time? Nobody can explain what it feels like to have life growing inside you, and that you could wrestle a bear with your bare hands to protect that life. Can someone really explain how good it feels to walk on your own, pull up your pants by yourself, or be medication free after back surgery? How can a person put into words the sense of giddy gratification when you are in your first apartment, buying your own groceries, and paying your own bills? When your graduate school professor hands you the diploma you earned and you think, Holy sh*t! I did it! How do you tell a ten year old that one day she will know which friends to keep and which one to walk away from?

You can’t. You have to live it.

While I have accomplished many things these past forty years, unless I am updating a resume, I really don’t think about them. What I do think about are all the experiences and feelings that have puzzle-pieced together, well, me.

When it is your birthday and you are evaluating your life, think about what really pops up. The fact that you pitched a perfect game, or the feeling it gave you? When you booked that acting gig, or the journey it took you on? The fact that you can say I have a child, or the feeling you get when you see them running up to you after school?

Forty is not the new twenty, but it is not the end of anything, by any means. And I feel good – like macrobiotic-eating-freaky-yoga-touting Madonna good. Thank God no one gave me any black Over The Hill balloons, because I would have choked someone with them – just like Madonna would do.

I’m starting this new decade of “Forty-geddon” with high hopes and big plans! I hope you will join me for this ride.

Right after I get rid of this mother of a hang-over.

Am I Really Thanking the Olympics for My Laziness?

All around the world, spectators, family, coaches, and athletes have their eyes glued to the Olympic Games. I am no different.

I enjoy viewing these outstanding feats of agility and strength with a glass of wine in my hand, lounging on the couch…after dinner…of spaghetti and meatballs.

Watching these athletic specimens I keep thinking, “Wow! That’s amazing! And what are those weird muscle patches they’re wearing?”

Now I like to think of myself as a do-er, a go-getter. I make things happen in my life. But during these dog days of summer, all I want to do is lie down and read, then nap, then look at pictures of puppies on Facebook. So naturally, when I am sitting on my ass relaxing while watching the Olympics, I feel like someone has injected me with some ludes, then made me smoke out of a bong in the shape of Gerry Garcia’s head.

I can multi-task – yes. I have passion – yes. But laser-sharp focus – negative-o. It really makes me think about all the things I could have accomplished if I had that type of tunnel vision dedication:

1) A professional dancer. For reals. I was pretty good, like, could have gotten onto Star Search and met Ed McMahon good (we did not have So You Think You Can Dance then).

2) Become a beatnik poet. I went through this weird phase when I lived in LA when I would walk on the beach and write about my “hard times” growing up in a loving nuclear family in the suburbs. Super deep. Give me some snaps.

3) Won a Latch Hook Championship. I cannot tell you people how much I was into latch hook as a kid. It’s something my mother would give me to do on family vacations in Maine.

4) Grown my perm out. At one point, I just couldn’t take it anymore and I cut all my hair off into a hideous bob. Yes, I am a quitter.

5) Married Tommy Lee from Mötley Crüe. While I am still a massive fan of his (he kills it on the drums!), I’m pretty sure I dodged a bullet there. If I had stayed really focused, gotten my boobs done, gotten my lips done, and only ate air for breakfast, I too could have ended up in a sex tape, taken him to court, and divorced him…twice. I want to rock out with him, not microwave left-overs with him.

6) Finished my novel, second screenplay, any other writing piece.

7) Run the Marine Corps Marathon. Oh this one just makes me laugh. I signed up to run this marathon with one of my best friends. I dreaded the thought so much, I moved to California. True story.

The other day my daughter told me she wants to be just like me when she grows up. After I wiped tears from my eyes, I screamed, “No! You have to be stronger, faster, BETTER than me! Don’t settle for driving around with the windows rolled down listening to Hair Nation on Sirius XM.” Then I offered her a Creatine shake, which she respectfully declined.

While many of the examples above are silly, I do take a look back every once in a while and wonder if some greatness could have come from one my kicked to the curb talents. I am in awe of all of the athletes from around the world. I am pulling for our Team USA to reach for the gold. It does makes a person think, “Could I have….?”

Nope. Not me. I like life too much to focus on just one thing. I want to experience everything this place has to offer and meet as many people as possible. Sometimes I enjoy watching coffee brew in a pot as the beautiful aroma fills the kitchen. I like to sit and stare out the window and think about everything and nothing.

Does that make me well rounded? Probably not. Did I miss out on a “great” moment in my life because I did not stick with something? Maybe. But life has been pretty good to me, and I can’t wait to see what happens next!

Right after I quit reading this book half-way through.

GO TEAM USA!!!!!!

Am I Really the Last Woman on Earth With an Only Child?

It sure feels like it.

A while back, I met a woman at a party who discovered I too had just one child. She scooped me up into her arms, gave me a bear hug, and exclaimed, “I thought I was the only one!”

Oh no sister, you are not alone. Word on the street is one in five families have only children. Hmm, interesting. So why do I feel like I belong on the endangered species list because I have an only child?

Attitude.

I have run into many a mommy who has Spanish Inquisitioned me about my singular sensation: “Is she your only one?” Yes. “Do you think you will have more?” Maybe, er, I don’t know. I’m not a soothsayer. “Did you plan to just have one?” Well no, it just kind of happened that way. (And my personal favorite) “Won’t your daughter be lonely?” We enjoy making her feel like crap.

Really? At one point I started making up random medical reasons like, “I’m just not too sure about my uterus.”

While not ALL mommies have this mind-set (of course not!), there have been many who have given me the eyeball, slowly backed away, and then sat down with a gaggle of pregnant women so as to not catch my “small family syndrome.”

There seems to be some type of public shame for having just one child. I feel as though I should shroud my face and live on the outskirts of town. I don’t see why we can’t all get along. So I have one child and you have four, big whoop. We are both parents, I carried and birthed my child just like you. I breast fed and got up in the middle of the night to calm a sick child. I’ve been puked on and pooped on. While I can’t imagine what it is like to juggle four different children, is it really necessary to have an elitist attitude? Is there some type of “Be Like The Duggars” award that I am unaware of? Are we only-child-raisers not considered a family by U.S. standards?

I’ll be honest – third grader honest – the questions and superior attitude hurt my feelings.

And guess what? That “look how many kids I have, it’s too bad about your solitary daughter” mentality is hurting my child’s feelings too, so quit it. She’s not Orphan Annie. She’s a little girl who has a dog instead of a sister. Geez people, haven’t you heard the bragging rights about being Numero Uno?

So I’m putting my foot down and squashing this “I’m on this side, you’re on that side” separation like a dirty bug. Let’s flip the script and talk about all the Pros about being the parent of an only child:

1) We can all comfortably fit into a Mini Cooper.

2) When the three of us walk down the street, we can form a perfect triangle.

3) ONE college tuition…or tuition to Barbizon, whichever.

4) I can easily hold my child’s hand while crossing the street and a large tote bag.

5) I save time by calling just one child’s name to dinner, instead of going down a list.

6) I’ve never heard a bank robber say: “I did it because I was an only child!”

7) Famous only children: Robin Williams (Academy Award Winner), Natalie Portman (Academy Award Winner), Rudy Giuliani (Mayor of NYC), Kareem Abdul-Jabbar (Kick ass basketball player, and top notch actor in Airplane!), FDR (President of the United States), Cary Grant (swoon), Frank Sinatra, Lauren Bacall, and Robert DiNero, just to name a few. Not too shabby.

8) When our child has a bad dream, we have plenty of room to snuggle in bed.

9) I can drag her around on more errands.

10) I can sit down…fairly often.

And the list goes on and on. I’m sure you can come up with a whole bunch more.

Bottom line – it’s the type of parent you are, no matter how many children you have. While I am far (like pretty damn far) from being the perfect parent, when I look at my girl and all the light she brings into this world and the people she meets, I go ahead and give myself a pat on the back. We are doing A-Okay people.

So when you see my daughter playing in the pool while I sit back and relax while watching her, don’t hate. We’re just like you.

Just a few people less.

Am I Really Comparing Magic Mike to a Chimichanga?

Wow, those dudes are super gross. Beefy biceps, taught abs, and buns of steel – barf….is the way I would feel if this was opposites day. Seriously, those bodies are ridiculous. C’mon! Just look at Joe Manganiello, can a six-pack really look like that??

Since the movie came out weeks ago, this post is a bit overdue. I realize this. However I was on a Sea World vacation extravaganza, so please, indulge me.

A few weeks ago (yes, opening weekend), some friends and I hand dinner and drinks and pre-ordered are tickets to see Magic Mike. I thought that this would be some type of fun, light-hearted girls-night-out watching a silly flick. And by “girls” I mean “women in their forties ogling over twenty-somethings.”

I was slightly wrong.

The movie had a much grittier edge than anticipated. And while I could have watched Channing – oops my panties just fell off – Tatum dance for the entire movie, the movie left me with an eerie feeling.

When the credits rolled at the end revealing that Steven Soderbergh directed it (you know, the guy who did Traffic and Erin Brockovich), I felt like I was in the end of that Seinfeld episode when Jerry and the gang all exclaim, “Oh! Delores!” It all made sense then.

Armed with this directorial realization and having just returned from my San Diego-guacamole-induced-coma, I find it apropos to take a look at Magic Mike through the eyes of a plate of Mexican food.

Please Note – I am not a movie critic, nor have I ever been a movie critic. I do not feel a movie is complete unless it has at least one fart joke or Vince Vaughn in it, so roll with that when reading the below:

1) Characters – CHILE VERDE BURRITO – These characters are well developed and some even made me a little sad. I was left feeling satisfied and full, all wrapped up in one blanket of a story, and I even had a little left over to take home and devour the next day.

2) Acting – MIXED ENCHILADA PLATE – I thought everyone did a fantastic job. As a movie-goer, if you did not like one actor’s job, trust me, you liked another. There was something for everyone.

3) Dude-age – ULTIMATE NACHO PLATE – Everyone like nachos! And this movie was cast perfectly. Trust me, you will not be disappointed.

4) Plot – FISHERMAN’S PLATTER – Okay, I know this is not a Mexican dish, but let me tell you, that story was NOT what I was expecting. At one point I felt bad that I was just going to see Channing – oops I tripped and my hand landed on your pecs – Tatum. I wanted to hand out baked goods to male prostitutes and addicts on the street after I saw this flick. What I did not want to do was score a bunch of $1.00s from 7-11 and cruise over the Golden Banana off Route 1. And if you have ever had a Fisherman’s Plate, it’s pretty good at the time, but you do not want to take the stuff home with you.

5) Skin-to-Clothing Ratio – BEEF TACOS – I think this is self-explanatory. At one point it was too much (SPOILER ALERT – You know when Matthew McConaughey was “training” the new guy in those yellow shorts. I had to avert my eyes for a bit.).

6) Dancing – QUESO FUNDIDO W/CHORIZO – For those of you whom have never experience the magic of the queso fundido, I weep openly for you. This appetizer (if done correctly) is like a dream, wrapped in a wish, living on a cloud with butterfly wings. Yeah I know. So is Channing – did my top just fall off? – Tatum’s dancing. Holy crap people! I could have watched this guy dance for two hours without a plot or dialogue. Yes, he is that good.

Now you don’t need to go see the movie, just kidding. If you were skeptical, it’s worth checking out.

So grab the DVD and some Mexican take-out. See what dish, in your opinion complements the movie best.

Just don’t go full monty on your Del Taco. It will just leave you uncomfortable and bloated. No bueno.

Am I Really Getting This Shnockered at a Catholic School Auction/Grown Up Dinner Event/Wedding?

So I am kind of like a puppy: easily excitable, a little yappy, and small. When I hit the town, I take with me this verve. I am so excited to be out socializing (always have been) that I need to run around the block a couple of times to burn off some energy. Back in the day, this vigor worked to my advantage. I used to go out all night, pop right out of bed the next day, and head to work. Then do it all over again the next day.

I am smidge older now and “the town” I’m hitting is more of the gown up variety – events. While my joie de vivre is of the same caliber, my tolerance is clearly not.

I’m a two drink Charlie, a cheap date if you will. I really should not have more than two drinks – period. But something happens to me when I am out. Maybe I am thirsty from all my chatting about my daughter, dog, how all these kids were crying at the beach, or re-enacting scenes from the Rock of Ages movie (it really is awesome). Maybe Prosecco just tastes so good on a hot day. Or maybe, I forget that I am a grown-ass woman with a low tolerance.

My husband and I recently attended a fabulous surf and turf dinner on the beach with three other couples. We won this event at my daughter’s Catholic School Auction (another white wine debauchery). The dinner was put on by great people and we had a fabulous time.

Then we went to a bar.

Having already ingested copious amounts of dink, I really did not need that vodka and soda. I knew it, but it was handed to me, so that was that. If you had been there you would have seen had your eardrums busted by a tiny blonde woman in a rain-soaked and dirty sundress doing the following:

– Making best friends with the bartender

– Inviting said bartender to a cookout (which I did not attend)

– Trying to freak-dance with my husband to a song by Poison

– Husband trying to shake wife off his leg

– Giving the bartender sh*t about his hair/shirt/the weather and most likely calling him the “p” word in the process

– Hiccups

Then we went home (my husband drove – don’t worry – even I’m not that much of a do-do) so I could pay the babysitter and try to have a lucid conversation about her going to college. I know I told her I had a bit too much to drink by using bizarre hand gestures and facial expressions akin to a Bell’s Palsy patient.

Then I puked for ten hours the next day while my husband said things like, “Did you learn your lesson?” and the dog licked my face.

Classy, I know.

While my abs are much tauter after a day of heaving, the moral of this story is for me to keep it in check. I can still be that little puppy excited to be out socializing with all the other little puppies, but I don’t have to “get this party started” by ice luging some Woo Woo shots. “Open Bar” doesn’t mean I have to run up to it like the Mister Mouth game. I’m a lady for chrissake.

That and if you see me reaching for a third drink, slap my hand like a Biggest Loser contestant going for a Tasty Cake.

Am I Really Still Keeping Tabs on THE LIST?

Don’t lie to me. You have one. That go-to list of dudes (or for the men folk – chicks, or not, whatever, its 2012) that just do it for you.

Mine has not changed much since the sixth grade. I recently came across an old diary from my junior high years. Hilarious. Although my pre-teen years were a roller coaster of anxious thoughts about Amy being the most popular girl, the indentation on my bob from my night headgear, or waiting for my boobs to come in (still am); interestingly enough, my taste in men has stayed pretty consistent.

I don’t know if it’s all the 50 Shades of Smut I’ve been reading, or all the promos for the upcoming moving Magic Mike that has got me feeling so bold, but I thought I would share a sample from my Hubba Hubba list.

So for humiliation’s sake, below is a roll call of luscious lads and reasons as to why they make the cut. This list is both current and from my middle school past. Please note this inventory does not only consist of people I want to make out with in my parent’s basement, but also, just people I want to meet.

Buckle up.

1) Dave Grohl – Okay, musical genius, has a great sense of humor, and pretty much seems to be an all-around cool guy. A good friend of mine sees eye-to-eye on this one; so much so that if we were to meet Dave in person we would probably each grab a leg and end up snapping him like a wishbone at Thanksgiving dinner. He’s the bee’s knees.

2) Mark Wahlberg – This is guy who will literally kill someone with his bare hands for you, all while helping a little old lady across the street and teaching inner city youth how to read. Swoon.

3) Ricky Schroder – Yep, the Ricker. Not Rick, but Ricky. When I was in the second grade I was so into Silver Spoons that I sent him a letter. He never wrote back. Dick.

4) Eddie Van Halen – Even in the Sixth Grade I knew this dude was stoned in the Jump video. I did not care. He was and is forever magic on the guitar and keyboard.

5) Ronnie James Dio – Everybody, pour some out for Ronnie. No, I don’t want to get busy with him. I want to sit on a red velour throne and drink wine out of a gold goblet with him while he tells me about the heavy metal days of yore.

6) Hugh Jackman – I think this one speaks for itself.

7) Seth Meyers – Smart, sexy, hilarious – I’m pretty sure that’s called a tri-fecta of awesome.

8) David Moyer – Man, I had it bad for this guy in the seventh grade. I have no idea where he is now or what he is doing, but I hope he is a little less dense. I could not have dropped more “kiss me” hints around this guy, using everything I learned from watching episodes of Days of Our Lives. Epic Fail (insert Price is Right music: wa wa wa waaaaa). Looking back, I’m surprised I did not end up pregnant, married to my second cousin’s butler, and/or stranded on a deserted island with Stefano DiMera.

9) Ryan Reynolds – He has graduated to serious movie roles, although I wish he’d do another Van Wilder. Or just keep doing X-Men spin offs with his shirt off.

10) John Taylor from Duran Duran – It was a phase. And yes, I owned a fedora.

11) Jason Segal – I can’t figure this one out. Maybe I really liked The Muppets.

12) Bradley Cooper – Do you even have to ask?

13) Nikki Sixx – I am a major Mötley Crüe fan and I listen to him every day on Sirius. He’s funny, hot, and survived like twenty heroin overdoses. Thumbs up buddy.

14) Alexander Skarsgård– I’m not into vampire crap, but I am a True Blood fan. He is such a cocky prick on the show and I love it.

15) John Cusack – He had me at Better Off Dead, and are you kidding me with the Lloyd Dobler role? Can you imagine what your first date would be like? Although now he is such an activist he would probably want to go to a sit-in for some social atrocity, and I would be cracking up because the guy next to us farted.

16) Edward Norton – I just like him.

So there, I’ve aired my dirty laundry and now my husband knows. Oops. This is clearly not a list based on any type of reality, which is why it is so fun.

We all daydream about meeting that famous person and what they would say to us, how thin we would look, etc. But they aren’t real, they are fantasies. Reality is paying bills, vacuuming dog hair off the floor, and running late for school…again. Reality is knowing the person next to you thinks your morning breath stinks, but they still love you. While fantasies are fun, they don’t hold your hand when you are scared. I’ll keep the reality in front of me and a couple of daydreams in my back pocket for a rainy day.

So chime in and leave a comment. I am dying to hear about your list!

Am I Really Bribing My Child With McDonald’s/Candy/A Ghetto Toy from CVS…Again?

Yesterday it rained….a crap-ton of eye boogers. Yep, my little person was sent home with conjunctivitis. Awesome.

In speaking with the pediatrician’s office, the nurse asked if I would prefer eye drops or ointment for the situation.

“Err…which one will stop my daughter from kicking me in the bladder when I try to give it to her?” I inquired.

She said neither. So I went with the ointment.

Then the nurse informed me of the application procedure: “All you do is pull back the lower eye lid and make a pouch with it. Squirt the ointment into the pouch and have your child circle her eyeball around a few times. Oh, and she can’t touch her eyes.”

I think I laughed so hard I almost crashed into a Dunkin Donuts.

Yeah right.

So, I hung up the phone, collected my one-eyed monster from school (apparently communicable viruses are frowned upon), and promised her a new toy at CVS while we waited for her prescription.

Then, I promised McDonald’s for lunch because I had to drag her with me to a commercial audition (I could not have been more excited about kitchen flooring).

When the dreaded moment of eyeball application came, my daughter unraveled. So did I.

“Baby, you can have a cookie. A popsicle? Your name on the jumbotron at a Celtics game?” Then I vice griped her between my legs, anaconda style, pried her lid open and slathered on the juice. All while she screamed to a decibel that I’m pretty sure even Marlee Matlin could hear.

My carrot-dangling tactics do not only reside with medical applications, they have a far wider reach. School, church, grocery shopping, swim class, airplane rides, my well woman exam (that was a day), and the list goes on.

Commiserating with a fellow mommy, she worried her child would grow up to be a spoiled bully; expecting things for everyday activities.

I told her not to sweat it. That will be society’s problem. Then I peeled out of the school parking lot while throwing old Starbuck’s coffee cups out the window. Just kidding. Maybe.

While attachment parenting enthusiasts and the Dog Whisperer guy are probably shaking their heads at me, I’m here to tell you about the PROS of sweetening the deal for your little people:

1) A well behaved child…temporarily. While the results may not last long, you’ll get them.

2) Looking like a champ donating all that crap to charity. With the amount of trinkets your get roped into buying for your kids you could probably stock a Toys R Us. When you weed through it all you’ll save the day at your local charity/mom club/neighborhood garage sale with all those damn Squinkies and Zoobles.

3) Keeping your hearing. As previously mentioned children scream, a lot, when they are scared, upset, you name it. Some Scooby Doo fruit snacks can take all that away.

4) A well stocked pantry. You will need to build up your arsenal when going into bribe mode, so head to your Super Target with your coupons and grab some goods.

5) Sticker Removal talents. Don’t ask me why, but kids get rewarded with stickers for EVERYTHING. A scratch-n-sniff sticker to a kid is like a new tube of lip gloss to Lady Gaga. Major Score. However, these pieces of joy seem to find their way into the laundry, the back seat of my car, windows, couch cushions, water bottles, and on the dog. In time, you will find ways to get these things off of your home goods while only using three to four curse words.

6) A well-conditioned child. Just like Pavlov’s Dog, your child will soon learn that, “If mommy gives me these animal crackers while we are at Bob’s Furniture Store, I need to sit down on this hideous zebra-print ottoman and be quiet. Okay lady, you have twenty minutes to shop, make it count.”

While I don’t believe in bribing all the time, I’m not going to stop. Guess what? I feel less crappy too. No parent wants to scold their child; it’s not fun for either party. So if some new markers and a Hello Kitty eraser help the situation, so be it.

Just don’t offer a new parakeet – that’s just more poop to clean up.

Am I Really 0 for 1 in the Parenting Department?

The school year is coming to a close and many of you are welcoming summer with glee. As your child graduates from one grade to the next, you may feel the pang in your heart knowing that yes, your baby is growing up. My daughter will be saying good-bye to Kindergarten this year and I have to keep myself from letting the torrent of tears flow down my face, because….

…I am going to miss the crap out of my daughter’s teacher. Seriously. This woman is the Child Whisperer. Whoever is your kid’s teacher, ours is better – trust me.

While my daughter learned to read this past year, I learned what a crappy parent I am, thanks to the talents of the wonderful Mrs. Blank (let’s keep her real name under wraps). With her magic wand of awesomeness, Mrs. Blank was able to get the children to do such things as:

1) Sit when asked.

2) Put away toys – on the first request.

3) Be quiet and – wait for it – listen. (I know!)

4) Keep underpants on at all times.

She did this and so much more all while NEVER raising her voice. In fact, she sometimes whispered, yes, whispered to get the attention of the class.

I can’t get my child to do any of the above unless threats are made of an untimely Barbie demise. Someone should reward this lady.

When discussing end of school year gifts for the teacher and teaching assistant, I suggested a house in the Caymans and an Audi respectively. I was informed that these items were a little over our budget. We decided on a decorative pin. Oh well.

Nonetheless, I realized that while I may not be able to reward my daughter’s fan-tab-u-lous teacher, I could still milk her for information. Therefore, I have compiled a list of pertinent questions before I say my final goodbyes to Mrs. Blank:

1) Do you conduct certification courses? I must have skipped the training classes at the hospital after I gave birth to my daughter. Perhaps I could take a fast track one – like getting a GED.

2) Do you conduct home visits?

3) Are you related to the Super Nanny?

4) Are you coming with us to the First Grade? Oh no? Well then, can you come back when my daughter turns fifteen? I have a feeling that the you-know-what is gonna hit the fan at that time – Hurricane Bob style.

5) Are you a robot?

6) Was Mary Poppins your grandmother? (Why are all the best child wranglers from England? Hmmm.)

7) Do you work with dogs?

8) Can you do anything about my spit ends? (Hey, it’s worth a try.)

9) Are you a magician?

10) Are you running for office? No? Well can I put your name down and vote for you anyway?

11) Can you get my husband to stop snoring/throw his fruit roll-up wrappers into the trash/wipe his chin after eating corn on the cob/stop watching American Pickers at volume 289?

I have many more questions to ask Mrs. Blank, but this is a start. And while I do feel slightly, okay, massively inadequate in the parenting skills department when I’m around Mrs. Blank, oh well. My daughter is still my daughter, and I am still her mommy, and that’s the way I like it. She’s my girl and that’s that.

Even if I can’t get her to pick up her f*&%ing toys.

Am I Really Wondering Why Anastasia from 50 Shades of Grey Is not Peeing After Sex?

I know, I know. Everyone is talking about this damn book. It was spoofed on Saturday Night Live (quite brilliantly, I might add), Ellen read some excerpts aloud, and every morning talk show has given their two cents about this erotic novel. Old news, I get it.

However…

In reading the first of the three-part series, I have encountered some territory that has not yet been discussed.

1) Can a woman orgasm that easily and that many times when she was just de-flowered a week ago? If so, where does she buy her vitamins? I don’t know about you, but I surely did not reach an “ecstatic release” my first time. It was more of a “what the hell was that?” The “cosmic orgasm” did not come (get it?) until much later after some practice. Who the hell is this broad?

2) Why isn’t Ana peeing after all that sex? I know I have posted this life altering question before, but really, why? That’s just Doin’ It 101. It’s a massive UTI waiting to happen.

3) Who eats Pasta Bolognese only to get your freak on five minutes later? Don’t they get side cramps? Everyone knows you need to wait a good thirty minutes before rigorous exercise.

4) Are you f’ing serious with the dialogue? I mean it, read it out loud. Now do it again but with a Fozzy Bear voice. Hilarious. I love me some boom boom, but if my husband came up to me and said, “Turn around, I am going to f*ck you hard from behind. This is for my pleasure only. You cannot come.” I would laugh in his face and then tell him to move out of the way because Modern Family is on.

The formal language. People just don’t talk like that in today’s society; certainly not people in their twenties. They sound like fifty year old British women. Oh wait, it was written by a fifty year old British woman.

5) And what about the guys? Don’t they benefit from this erotic romance novel? When my husband first saw the book in the house he scoffed, “What are you doing with that porno book?” It was as if I brought another man into the house. After a few days he said I should read the book four more times. I informed him it was a trilogy; he fist pumped the air and shouted “I win!” Yes guys, you too can benefit from this work of nipple-clamping fiction.

6) How the hell are they are they going to make a movie out of this? Oh you know they are going to. That’s the new wave of Hollywood – make a motion picture out of a best seller. But how?? That’s a lot of full frontal. It might end up being just like 9 ½ Weeks, but with bossier sex.

7) Bitch please! A twenty-two year old supposedly “smokin’ hot” college senior – who is a virgin? Maybe if this was 1920. Oh, and she does not own a cell phone OR a computer. WTF? I would believe that “Lovey” from Gilligan’s Island was into S & M before I would believe in a twenty-two year old virgin.

8) Somebody grab a red pen. Seriously. I am queen of the typos, BUT I do not have a published novel (yet). I caught ten typos (misspelled words, word omissions) in the first novel. If my blind eyes can find typos in between the butt slapping and horse crop whacking, then that’s sayin’ something.

Regardless of the above issues, I am onto the second book in the series because I HAVE TO KNOW what happens to these two addictive nut jobs. My hat tips off to E.L. James because she has created the Holy Grail for the hard-up, forty-something married woman. It is some serious fantasy candy. And while the dominant/submissive thing is not for me, I am not going to rain on someone else’s genital clamp – er – parade.

If you’re curious, go check it out. Your husband will thank you.

Photo Courtesy of:

http://www.babble.com

Am I Really at Battle With a Bunch of Microscopic Bugs… And Losing?

Let’s talk about LICE baby/Let’s talk about you and me/Let’s talk about all the good things and the bad thins LICE can be…let’s talk about LICE…..

The little phrase, “My head itches…” can make a mother sweat like she has been living under the heat lamps at Chik-Fil-A. When my daughter let that one loose while pawing at her locks, I instinctively knew what it was.

Lice. Those rat bastards.

Not this time you little buttholes, I thought to myself as I whipped out the metal torture device – er – comb and started raking through her hair.

Boo. Nits.

Having gone through this fiasco a year ago, I knew just what to do. I called in the professionals and handed over my credit card. They came to the house with their special lights, magnifying glasses, and neroli oils. My living rooms looked like a scene out of E.T.

Usually, you can find zero helpful information on this blog. However, I feel that if I went through this hell, someone else is going through it and might want some advice.

Hang onto your hats people, below are some tips:

1) Magic Johnson – Good; Magic Potions – Not so much. Seriously, all those solutions, they don’t work. They might help a bit, but they will not get rid of the situation. They will however, make your child radioactive, so try to avoid them. You need professionals, or yourself, to comb out the nits with that metal-pronged comb. Get up in there mother ape style and pluck them out.

2) Pull Back Your Hair Bob Marley. If you are a girl with a decent amount of hair, put it in a ponytail or braid. When your hair is pulled back, it makes it more difficult for those little buggers to get into it. I’m pretty sure my daughter was attacked because she likes to whip off her headband and let her hair flow free a la Janis Joplin.

3) But you can eat off my floors – in fact my child just did! This was a hard one for me to get over. I’m pretty clean – scratch that – I’m anal. I nearly dip my child into a vat of hand sanitizer after school, playdates, etc. It does not matter how tidy you are, lice don’t care. In fact, they prefer clean hair. So skip a day or put hair product into your child’s hair. Apparently they don’t like mousse or gels.

4) It’s not syphilis, it’s lice. Your child feels like crap. His/her head itches so much that you can probably see flames coming off of their scalp from all the scratching. They will still want a hug, even while they sit with a toxic shower cap on. Give them one. No one is going to lose a limb from lice. But be smart and don’t purposely run noggins together.

5) Mary Poppins the hell out of your house. Wash everything – blankets, bedding, towels, throw rugs. Then, lucky you, do it again in a few days.

6) Too hot in the hot tub. Those little buggers can’t survive in high heat. Stick your throw pillows and bed pillows (sans pillow covers) in the dryer for 20-30 minutes. It won’t work for your child’s head, so please don’t stick your little one’s head in the oven.

7) Check baby, check baby, 1,2,3,4… You need to check your child’s head every day for up to two weeks. You may have missed one little nit, and now that dude has hatched and laid a bazillion eggs. Think Gremlins, they just keep multiplying.

8) Shout it from the rooftops. Seriously – you need to tell people. It may be uncomfortable, but you will find that people appreciate being informed. Tell the school, have them check the class. If you play t-ball, etc., tell the coach (especially if you share helmets). Tell your gymnastics instructor, your dance teacher, just tell people. This one mom at my daughter’s preschool did not inform the school or ANYONE that her daughter had lice. The case was pretty bad and her whole family got it. Lucky for us, her daughter “gifted” my child with this situation. Had the mother told the school or the parents, we could have been on the lookout and implemented some preventative measures. When speaking with her, alone, she said she was uncomfortable telling people about it. Hey I get it. It’s not like you won a cruise, your kid has lice. But let me tell you what is more uncomfortable – my foot up your ass b/c you did not tell anyone. Now my child thinks that bugs are eating her brain. Thanks lady.

9) Who ya gonna call….I cannot stress enough the value of taking your child to a lice treatment center. Just Google for one in your area. It may cost a few cents, but it is worth every penny. My daughter thought it was great because she got to watch the BRATZ movie and get a lollipop at the end. A win/win.

Most importantly remember that yes, you are a good parent. Child Protective Services are not going to come and get you because your child has lice. You did not neglect them or let them hang out with homeless people just to see what life was like out on the streets. As the saying goes, “Lice happens.”

Dealing with lice is frustrating, annoying, and may take a few go-rounds to get rid of it all. Just keep in mind, like bad tantrums, bad perms, and bad breath, this too shall pass.

So go in there with your pitchforks and torches raised and reclaim your child’s scalp! Just wash your hands after.